“Or he’s a dick,” Jem countered and took a bite of his sandwich.
Olly mulled this over while he chewed. “He’s different when he’s alone. Like when he was carving—he was so into it. No tension. His face was…” He grasped for the right word, but the best he could come up with was “…different.”
With his mouth full, Jem said nothing, but his eyes conveyed skepticism. So Olly went on. “And when he was talking about furniture making, he tried to make it like no big deal, but the passion was all there in his eyes. I bet he’s like a pineapple: all gruff and hard exterior but sweet and juicy on the inside.”
Jem swallowed. “Why pineapple? Why not clam?”
“I don’t like clams.”
“Ha! So you like him.”
Olly carefully considered the idea. “I don’t know. He’s like an itch you can’t scratch. One minute he pisses me off so much I want to slap him, the next I want to rip his clothes off and check if the carpet matches the curtains.”
Jem snorted into the orange-carrot juice he was drinking. He coughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re just horny.”
“Who wouldn’t be? He’s so ginger. Not reddish-blond or reddish-brown, but flaming ginger. Have you ever been with a redhead?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. It’s so tantalizing.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Have you even figured out yet he’s gay?”
“I’m not sure he’s figured it out yet, but there’s something there.”
After the break, it was Olly’s turn at the demo table—grilled chicken and organic jasmine rice. It was popular with the customers, and he had to keep the samples cranking. He was close to the end of his stint when Hunter appeared by his station.
Hunter didn’t have sunglasses this time, but the brim of an LA Dodgers baseball cap shaded his eyes. “Hi,” he said.
“Chicken and rice?” Olly asked.
“Can’t eat anything salty.”
“Not at all?” Olly asked, surprised. Hunter slowly shook his head. He seemed to burst with vitality. It was hard to imagine him having health issues. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Hunter hefted his basket—it was loaded with fresh produce and more dark chocolate.
Olly smiled. “We have all sorts of nuts next to the cereals. Some of them are unsalted. You might like those. Dried fruit too.” Between scooping dollops of rice into tiny paper cups, he took a good look at Hunter. The guy was still strikingly good looking, yet Olly didn’t experience anything beyond aesthetic admiration toward Hunter. No spark, no zing. None, zero, zilch. Whatever possessed him at Ombre a couple of nights ago was plainly missing.
Hunter must’ve come to the same conclusion, because with a good-bye nod, he wandered off in the direction of the cereal aisle.
Well, sometimes these things just didn’t work out, Olly told himself. However, something about Hunter kept bugging him for the rest of the day. He didn’t figure out what till the end of his shift. It had to do with the baseball hat and the video clip of Sandy. Olly thought he should tell Rich, but he didn’t have Rich’s number, and he couldn’t call Sandy with this. He decided to drive over there. He could tell Sandy he was just checking in and pull Rich aside. Silver Lake wasn’t too far out of his way.
Olly smelled the weed from the door—he’d learned to recognize Eau De Skunk at a tender age. He knocked. “It’s open!” He heard the shout from inside and pushed the door open.
The living room was much the same as he’d last seen it—the walls cheerful yellow with fresh paint, but the shabby carpet still in place and an old couch covered in drop cloth in the middle of the room. A red-and-white plastic cooler next to it was a new addition.
Rich rested his feet on the cooler, his ass on the couch, and watched Olly with the fixed expression of a man holding his breath. His eyes were red. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Look who it is—young Oliver the Twisty,” he said, squinting through the smoke.
Olly walked in. “I’ve told you, not Oliver. Just Olly.”
“Yeah, but how just are you?”
“Oh man, you’re baked.” Olly had a good idea what Rich had been doing the day before, after being dropped off in Hollywood.
“Baked like Grandma’s apple pie. Wanna toke?” Rich held the roach out to Olly.
“No, thanks, I don’t do drugs.”
“Pretty square for a fruit.” Despite the words, Rich’s voice had no malice. If anything, he seemed amused.
So Olly chose not to take offense. For now. “Yeah, a square fruit, that’s me. How about you?”